“Okay,” Jamie says.
“He said I miss you. And I’m sorry.”
The room goes very still, but I can feel the rage that always lies dormant in Jamie. Especially when it comes to Marcus.
“That’s why I shoved him,” I say. “He doesn’t get to say that to me after everything and act like he’s owed something back. Like I’m supposed to hear it and give him something.” I shake my head once. “So I shoved him. Took the penalty. Went to the box.”
“And when I came out,” I say quieter, “you gave me your jersey and got yourself benched on purpose.”
It settles between us.
“I didn’t know what to do with that,” I admit. “In front of everyone.” I look at him finally. “I had to leave because I was either leaving or falling apart in front of the whole team. It was too much all at once. And I never said sorry for that.”
Jamie looks at me with all of it right there. No wall. Hasn’t had one for a long time. He takes the mug from my hands and sets it on the nightstand before taking my face in both hands.
“He looked at you and decided that moment was the right one to make about himself,” Jamie says. A beat. “Fuck that. I don’t have patience for that. No one gets to hurt what’s mine. Don’t apologize.”
“Jamie—”
“I gave you the jersey because there wasn’t another option.” His thumbs brush once against my jaw. “It wasn’t a decision. It was the only thing I had and I needed you to have it.”
My throat tightens.
“And then you followed me here,” he says softly. “Packed up your whole life. Found a job. Learned a new city. You just came,like it wasn’t even a question.” His gaze stays on mine. “I don’t know what I did to deserve getting to keep you, but I’m not letting go. I picked you and you picked me.”
I look at this man — who a year ago could barely say anything real out loud. And he’s still Jamie. Still ironing jerseys at eight in the morning. Still controlled. Still quiet.
But open now.
Open in all the places that matter.
For me.
“I’m not letting go either,” I say.
He nods once like that settles it.
Then he kisses me slow and rough at the same time, the secure kind of kiss that has nothing left to prove. I grab his shirt and feel it everywhere — in the place I used to keep locked that isn’t locked anymore. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.
We just stay there.
Then he says casually into the space between us:
“You looked good in my number.”
I pull back immediately. He’s already smiling. That corner of his mouth. Those laugh lines.
“Don’t,” I say.
“What?”
“You’ve been holding that in for a fucking year?”
“I’m just saying. My number on you on the ice.” He tilts his head. “Looked right. I think about it a lot.”
“You asshole—”
“I’m being sincere.”
